It’s been a week since I went all gaga over Tall, Dark and Handsome, and despite several visits to Blacks, he’s been a no-show. Which is as I expected, if I’m honest. So last night I swallowed my pride and confronted Jackson. He was his friend. He’d know where Ash lived, and with some gentle persuasion he’d tell me.
What I didn’t expect was a grin as wide as the Thames is long and the information that Ash’s home address is just around the goddamn corner. It was obvious Jackson was matchmaking, and that gave me hope that whatever this connection between Ash and me is, it’s powerful enough for his friend to believe in it too.
So here I am, at six thirty on a Friday evening, nervously toying with my bag as I stare at the exclusive warehouse development before me. It doesn’t look like much from the outside, but I’m not fooled. This postcode doesn’t come cheap, and whatever’s hidden on the other side is going to be just as exclusive...rather like the man himself.
And here’s another dose of truth: I didn’t expect him to be this well-off either. His rough, honest edge hinted at something more normal, something more ordinary—something I wanted to reach out and hold on to so bad.
All I have to do is ring the damn bell and, fingers crossed, he’ll be at home and willing.
So why I’m still standing here, ten minutes after my driver opened the car door to let me out, I don’t know.
Derek’s probably watching me from the car and wonderi
ng exactly the same thing. I must look like I’m losing my mind.
I pull my handbag tighter over my shoulder and scan my clothing. Today I’m dressed in black skinny jeans and a free-swinging white shirt—perfectly innocent and a complete contrast to the debauched ideas taking centre stage in my brain. My underwear is bang on, though. It may be white, but the crotchless panties and the revealing lace bra communicate exactly what I’m after.
I take a breath and look to the frosted glass of the double front doors ahead that give nothing away, at the brick archway above that appears far more daunting than it should, and butterflies kick up inside my belly.
What are you doing?
Fuck it, I’m doing what I want—screw the judgement and the doubts. I head for the door. Reality can be pushed away for a night at least. I deserve this. A bit of fun...a bit of—
The door swings open as I reach for the buzzer beside the entrance—the single, solitary buzzer. Christ, does he own the whole lot? And then he’s there, filling the opening, and I’m gaping like a fucking fool.
‘Coco?’
His surprised expression all but does me in. He’s even more handsome than I remember, his jaw still unshaven, his eyes just as piercing beneath his dark angled brow, all rugged, rough and—
His brow quirks.
Fucking get with it, Coco.
I straighten, my hands tight over the strap of my bag as I cling to it for solidarity when my legs want to give way.
‘Hi,’ I say—like this is totally expected, like I haven’t just stalked the bejesus out of him. ‘I thought we could do dinner...if you’re free?’
I struggle to hold his eyes. He’s doing it again: reading me and all my fucked-up mental chaos. I lower my gaze but stand firm. He’s wearing a deep blue shirt and dark denim jeans. Very smart. And as I breathe in, I get the welcoming scent of freshly applied cologne. He looks and smells date-worthy.
Oh, Christ, was I asking him on a date?
My eyes flick back to his and I see my double take reflected back at me.
‘How did you find me?’
Not quite the response I was hoping for...
‘Jackson gave me your address.’
Fire sizzles beneath my cheeks. Please, God, let my make-up do its job and stop me from looking crimson. I’m blonde, I’m freckly, I go red at the drop of a hat.
‘It’s not like I tailed you or anything. I’m not some stalker.’
I swear his skin pales. Shit. He thinks I am some stalker.
‘Jackson thought you could do with me swinging by.’
‘Jackson should mind his own bloody business.’